An Evening with President Abiola

IT was a scene out of the Roman Empire in all its glory and grandeur. The din was impossible, yet there was something sedulous and magical about this display of power at its awesome summit. It was medieval pageantry in Technicolor; a brilliant fusion of the traditional and the modern. A very important man was traversing the highway between mortality and immortality.

Horses and horsemen collide with outriders and state of the art limousines. State spooks mingled with traditional enforcers dressed like local hunters. An empty gold chariot blasted its way through, heralding the imminent arrival of his imperial majesty, even as a remarkably ugly masquerade which reminded one of an ill-tempered hippopotamus began to press its luck with the crowd. He was Pakaleke, a.k.a the devil of Apataganga.

From the distance, a dancing procession was approaching. The law enforcement agents were beginning to have problems with the rowdy crowd. As they surged forward, they were beaten back with batons and horsewhips. Everybody was trying to catch a glimpse of the royal carnival. This was not a scene to miss. In his youth and penurious prime, his majesty was known as a dancer and drummer of exceptional endowments. And judging from the royal harem, his prodigious appetite for ravishing beauties remained undimmed by time and tribulation.

As the dancing procession drew nearer, you could swear that you knew the king somewhere. There was something faintly familiar and yet oddly distant about him; an otherworldly aura of perfect self-control and inner tranquillity. But by now, the lead drummer was getting in the way of the cognitive senses. A brilliant purveyor of social acrimony, he was panning out litigious lyrics with savage delight and with his face permanently contorted in subversive exertion.

Omo agbon jeje bi eniti o r’obinrin ri

Beni aya nbe nile; omo nbe nile

Sugbon obinrin dudu obinrin pupa

Olorun maje o kuku obinrin.

And later in response to the din:

Dami dami dami, Ologundudu

Dami, dami dami, ariwo majesin

Kii pa alakara, dami dami dami.

And much later:

Gbedogbedo kan o le gb’agogo

Akanbata o le kan lekun

Alagbede o le r’ojugun

Pejapeja o le p’olorun oba

Oro t’eso pe sobe, pe sobe

Eyin le so, eyin leso.

By now as this riotous carnival came into full view, the ever joyous visage, the kind compassionate features, the in your face, devil may care bravura of an Alpha male in full menace, had become unmistakable. He was even more noble of carriage and majestic of mien. Yet like all artists, he had a remarkable sense of rhythm and cadence and was responding to the inner music with a feline suppleness and glorious flair that drew rapturous applause from the crowd. The jaw dropped in awe and astonishment and before you could pronounce the name, the riotous crowd had beaten you to it.

“It is President Abiola in triumphal procession”, they chanted in unison. The good people of Nigeria, irrespective of race, region and religion, spoke twenty four years ago. And now power is concurring. History shall vindicate the just indeed.

It has taken a tectonic shift from the template of governance to acknowledge the obvious truth that whatever his personal failings and the objective contradictions of the circumstances, Abiola is a hero of democracy in Nigeria. It is not how you begin that matters but how you end up. The fallen hero may yet be forgiven, but it does not vitiate the claim of the emergent hero.

Twenty four years ago in June 1993, Nigerians spoke in unison against the barbarity of military rule. Fourteen million of them voted, nine of these for MKO Abiola, charismatic mogul and candidate of the Social Democratic Party. The victory in itself was a political odyssey whose story has never been told in full. Abiola outgunned and outfoxed the military High Command who were expecting a different outcome which would have made their job easier.

In the event, the military still went ahead to annul the freest and fairest election so far in the history of the nation. It led to a five-year low intensity civil war in which many perished and the Nigerian military junta anathematised by the civilised world. Till date, many still carry the traumatic wounds of that encounter. There were many, this writer included, who were not Abiola’s fans and who never met him on a one to one basis but who chose to fight on the side of truth and freedom. We chose to lose all, rather than be ruled by primitive predators. A nation-state is not a military or feudal fiefdom.

By now, the din had died down. All the revellers had disappeared. A celestial calm enveloped the universe. In the distance, a few female praise singers could be heard chanting the heroic panegyrics of the first posthumous president of Nigeria and the last Aare onakakanfo of his people. But the late tycoon was nowhere to be found. Even the mad drummer, Ayanlere, with his droopy and dolorous visage, had disappeared. The wild drumming had now been replaced by an Ebenezer Obey classic in honour of the late tycoon.

Balogun Ojoo, baba Bada, badabarawu

Ti nbari balogun lehin mi

Inu mi a dun, ara mi a ya gaga

Odede lowa tabi yara logbe wa

T’oba ti gb’ohun mi o

Masun mawo maa bo, Ologundudu

Masun mawo maa bo, oko Atinuke….

Baba Kolawole mi o ire.

Snooper had slept, joyous but exhausted, with a crushing pile of newspapers . In the last stages of consciousness, this avalanche of printed matter began crushing the neck as it made its way to the bare floor. This was a sure recipe for political hallucination. A mobile handset was beginning to slide down towards the buccal cavity now made more cavernous by sheer exhaustion. Suddenly, there was a door from nowhere and as it opened lo it was the late tycoon resplendent and well-rested smiling his famous cherubic smile. The chief was obviously in a bantering mood as he opened up with his famous fusillade of native wisecracks and witticism.

“Even Babangida has joined the chorus”, snooper noted with a hint of disapproval.

“Ah leave Ibrahim out of it. Omo buruku n’ijo tie. Besides, as our people say, makanmakan loye. A man that is being pursued by a masquerade should take heart, because as people of this world get tired, so do people of the other world.”, the chief noted with a deadpan demeanour.

“Sir, please explain,” snooper pleaded.

“You see, Ibrahim is not alone in this thing. When a man says he is Dodondawa, you must know that there is a problem, because Dodo o dawa. Enia lowa lehin dodo to fi ni ohun ni Dodondawa” the chief explained with an even more recondite Yoruba saying.

“Ah chief, how do you mean?” snooper pressed.

“Wo iwo omokunrin yi ma fitina mi. (Youngman, don’t trouble me) You see, it is like the case of a masquerade who is killed by a lorry and the people are saying that he has to Lagos. Very soon, the mother of the missing will ask for her son”, the chief concluded with wit and calm forbearance.

Snooper decided to change the topic.

“Chief, is that not an empty bottle of Stout I am looking at under your bed?” snooper queried in a mischievous tone.

“Ah, some people came and I entertained them. In any case, when you recite the Qumran up to the point of rabana, omi amala loku.”, he replied with a boyish grin.

By now snooper could not resist a wild laugh of relish at the great man’s native wisdom and traditional savvy. He was eyeing me with the poker-faced perspicuity of a traditional savant. Here was the Griot-president Nigeria never had.

“Chief, by the way, have you seen Alhaji Abubakar Rimi?” snooper asked MKO.

“Ah, is he here? O ntan lo na niyen. You see, it is like the case of the man who was caught in bed with his own daughter in- law. When he was asked what he thought he was doing, the old man replied, well, gentlemen, e ti gbo? Then it is almost over, it will soon be over”.

At this point, the bed lamp, dragged by the cord of the mobile set, hit snooper on the ridge of the nose, sending him awake with a crushing pain. It was midnight and it was raining heavily in Lagos.